This one-shot has been swirling in my mind for a while now, so I thought it best to post this story. There are references for "Corazon" and "100." Happy reading! :)
" 'Tis pity if the case require
(Or so we say) that in the end
We speak the literal to inspire
The understanding of a friend."
-Robert Frost, "Revelation."
It was always night, always black, and Agent Hotchner let this depressing thought lodge somewhere inside his skull as he climbed out of his car and walked on the mismatched, uneven steps leading to his home. Why were they always returning from cases in the middle of the night, stealing away like some kind of creature that could not break daylight for fear of dissolving? Why was everything always spinning into some indistinguishable blur? Why were they always peering in darkness and, worse, why was the very same darkness always swallowing them whole?
The living room was cold, and Hotch dropped his bag somewhere by his feet, letting his eyes adjust to the muddled surroundings. An old throw blanket was shriveled at the end of the couch, discarded and left behind like a second skin. One of Jack's coloring books was open on the coffee table, mocking the stillness with its brightly-colored, half-completed picture of an astronaut. In the thin light filtering inside, the room felt abandoned, almost as if it had once been part of another life. Hotch fumbled for the switch, anticipating the warmth of the artificial coloring.
Hotch sighed, running a hand over his face in a motion he was ashamed to realize reminded him of his own father. Sinking into the cushions, he tried to understand, tried to fathom, why he was so worried, but sometimes there was no definitive reason. It was too late to chase the feeling away with bitter alcohol, as last call had ended a mere hour earlier. Calling Dave would yield more than one late night drink, but Hotch also knew that involved a fair amount of explaining, and that wasn't something he was interested in just yet. Explanations were needed, but not from him. If Jack wasn't in dreamland at Jessica's, Aaron knew he'd go there now and pull his son-his living, breathing son-into a protective cocoon. Instead, Hotch vowed he'd treat Jack to pancakes at an acceptable hour.
Aaron stood on creaking joints that felt increasingly worn as the time progressed. In the mirror these days, he saw more weathered lines and gray hairs than he did anything else. But reflections were just the beginning. If he looked further, dug deeper, Aaron knew he'd reach the real truth: He was an older, wiser, exhausted agent who, despite the gnawing pain in his gut frequented by nightmares of Hayley's death and Foyet's manic smile, had begun to regain his footing. Somewhere in the past year, he had learned to rely on others more than he ever had before. The change wasn't welcomed, but it was swift, and Hotch knew it was needed. Without his team, he would have shattered into a million pieces that had no hope of being glued haphazardly back together again.
The kitchen light felt more inviting and warm than the living room, and Hotch busied himself with the bottle of whiskey, pulling a stout glass to the counter and pouring an even portion, watching as the amber contents swirled against the glass sides when he sunk into an empty stool. The liquid burned his taste buds, stung water droplets into the corners of his eyes, and set fire to his dry throat. Hotch sighed again, allowing the substance to surface his anxieties. Whatever protective fortress he had employed during the case had dissolved, and Hotch sensed its departure long before he allowed himself to succumb to its force.
But, underneath fluorescent beams, Hotch thought of the agent that Morgan called kid, although he was far from one anymore. In a span as short as a flutter of eyelashes, the years had transformed the skinny, uncoordinated, brilliant, sensitive young man into a confident, still brilliant, slightly less uncoordinated, stronger man. Sometimes Hotch thought time played tricks on him, but the events of the past few days also made him see that things, however progressed, were never far from tumbling off one cliff or another.
Aaron knew what illness looked like. He knew its smell, its lingering heaviness, and its toll on the body, spirit, and mind. His father had been his first real example at how to hide illness and how to profile, and Hotch had been an eager student. Too eager. When the world had careened towards the inevitable, he had been unprepared for the aftermath that followed. He had been unprepared for the end.
But his father had been lifetimes ago, and he was no longer a young boy pretending he was not scared by death.
Hotchner knew Reid was in pain, but not the warped mental anguish he had once attempted to obliterate with vials of drugs stolen off the still-warm body of a fragmented dead man. Hotch had seen the signs of some physical malady, but Dave's whispered, rushed "Leave'em alone, Aaron," had stopped him from telling Reid to go back to the hotel, to lie down, and to sleep away whatever demon he was trying to banish. When his stomach burned in a mixture of anger and fear, Aaron also realized Dave's words had rocketed him back to Gideon, who had once believed that abstracts were all anyone needed to get by and overcome.
So he had watched from afar, but never too far.
Reid's sunglasses were a shield he wore with stoic pride, stealing away into darkened corners and isolated rooms to feign thoughtfulness. Instead, Hotch could see the thin protrusions of the younger agent's spine as he hunched forward, grabbing his throbbing head in his hands. Discarding his vest had been stupid, but Hotch understood. After all the time he'd spent with Reid, he knew how oppressive the protection felt sometimes. He felt how it burdened Reid's conscious, pulling and prodding at his heart in raw, old, half-healed spots. Aaron empathized with why Reid needed to shed the life he created for himself. To an extent, he got the reckless behavior. To an extent, he could look past it, forgive it almost, even if all the other piss poor decisions were now a stack of black marks against one of his most revered, intelligent agents. It hadn't been Reid's smartest move, but it had been his most needed one.
However, what Hotch could not understand, could not accept, was Reid's need for secrecy. He thought the times for self isolation had long since passed. The walls had cracked when Elle had. The holes had appeared when Tobias Hankel weaved a tenuous hold through Reid's life, and when Gideon bolted only after leaving a scribbled note in an empty cabin. The fortress had morphed when Garcia's wounds stained a door stoop, and then it had shrunk to almost nothing when Hayley's blood had dried to his hands. Anthrax, gun shots, JJ's sudden departure, and religious cult leaders had scared and scarred them, but, over time, there had been moments, flickers really, of evaporating barriers. They had fought, and laughed, and sometimes cried, but they had become closer. They had to. If they were to survive it all, they had to pull and lean on one another.
When the hollow knocking echoed off the walls that were still void of photographs, ones Aaron Hotchner only pulled out of their boxes at his loneliest, most desperate, moments, he understood what he had caused. The worry he felt had manifested and spiraled and now it was tangible. It was a solid form standing on the other side of his door at three in the morning. As he headed through the kitchen and abandoned living room, Hotch thought that Garcia would have called this karma, and Morgan may have even agreed, but he knew it to be something else. Something the years had created.
The eyes that met his were dark, swirling with a mixture of dread and worry. A familiar rhythmic tapping told Hotch Reid's converse rubber soles were beating against the stone steps. In the streetlights, he looked washed out, or strung out, but Hotch couldn't decide if Reid or his ghosts was staring back at him.
"I didn't pretend." It seemed like the obvious thing to say and Hotch nodded, accepting Reid's reference to his earlier inquires as he stepped aside to let the younger agent inside. For a moment, Reid stared at his home, eyes falling on the barren, but lived-in, room. Hotch wondered if he was profiling, but he also didn't want to know what Reid's innate perceptive abilities would reveal. When Reid sunk on the couch, Hotch followed suit, positioning himself into an armchair that looked comfortable, but really felt stiff.
"What's going on, Reid?" Hotch asked, knowing that Reid would sit in silence for days if he allowed it.
"I've been having headaches for a few days now." Hotch exhaled his collection of air, wondering how long it would have been before Reid relented or the pain became too much for the young man to handle. Judging that Reid had once been shot in the knee and had never complained openly, at least not to him, Hotch knew it could have been a while.
"How come you didn't say anything, Reid?" The authority crept into his voice, but Hotch also bordered the words with softness. With Reid, Hotch accepted how important it was to let him explain. He always had an answer, a reason. What Reid really needed, Hotch knew, was time.
"I don't know…" Reid sighed, running a shaking set of fingertips through his hair. His eyes were glazed, but attentive, and Hotch watched Reid through the reflection projected on the black, silent television screen. For a few moments, he allowed himself to see Reid as he was lifetimes ago: twenty pounds scrawnier with straggly hair and thick-rimmed glasses. The man with nerdy chic style, a muscular frame, and disorderly, but clean, hair was not the same person. Hotch blinked, and the past became dislodged.
"I thought I could deal with it on my own." Reid finally admitted, shoulder sagging. A headache of his own had begun to tempo syncopated beats against his skull, and Hotch paused to rub his temples with his index finger.
"What did your doctor say, Reid?" The eyes that met his were conflicted and clouded with bewilderment. IQ of 187 aside, Hotch knew that Reid could not comprehend what he had been told and, now, his mind was straining and scraping to find something to hold, something to validate his very real loss of control.
"He said the MRIs concluded no medical cause for my headaches. No tumors, no legions…" Reid trailed off, staring at the floor with astonishing focus as his hands wove unknowing patterns into the air. All at once, Hotch felt the familiar burn in his stomach. Of course it came down to this. Hadn't it always?
"He said they were psychosomatic?" Reid's head gave a tiny jerk upwards, but Hotch had seen enough to understand his worries. Fear was etched onto Reid's face, breaking the elongated, delicate features into some contorted form Hotch recognized all too well. He'd never admit this aloud, but Hotch was afraid of that possibility too.
"What do you think?" Startled by the obvious question, Reid blinked, watching Hotch lean into his chair. In the thin veil of silence, Reid broke his gaze, eyes traveling to the throw rug on the floor. His head still throbbed, but it was a distant, pulsating reminder. At least now he could think.
"The doctor said I was stressed, and that with my job, it was understandable." Hotch nodded, expression unreadable.
"I mean, I guess he's right…." Reid fidgeted as his cheeks blazed with red shame, "But I'm not weak, Hotch. I've seen a lot of things. We all have…"
"But not all of us can recall everything as vividly as you can, Reid." The statement was coated in a caring tone, but Reid understood all the same. Not everyone had an eidetic memory. While his teammates could recall some pictures, contextualize some smells, he could remember everything at any given moment, whether or not the case had happened the day before or years prior.
"He said I should talk to someone." On the adjacent wall, day began to break. Hotch studied the patterns it created, oddly reminded of fragmented bits of light reflecting off the bottom of an outdoor summer swimming pool. Its brilliance did not have a home here. It was not wanted among all this darkness.
"That may not be a bad idea, Reid. It doesn't make you any less of a person." Reid exhaled audibly, but the sound was not annoyed. It was a release that told Hotch the younger agent was scared, ashamed, and anxious.
"I went after Hayley's death. Jack too." Reid nodded slowly because he'd known. In their line of work, mandatory therapy after traumatic, trying cases was required before Hotch, or any of them, could return to the team.
"I know-"
"No you don't." Hotch's tone became darker, serious, and Reid lifted his head upwards, staring at his boss with wide, curious, and somewhat frightened eyes.
"I had mandatory sessions with the FBI therapist, but I saw, and continue to see, an out-of-network therapist whenever I can." Hotch couldn't help but break eye contact, feigning interest at an early morning ray that extended across the room in some obscure reach for levity.
His first two weeks back had been hell. He had tried, God he had, but memories were overwhelming, Hayley was everyone, everywhere, and the drinks had called to him in ways he had never experienced before. The first few late nights, it had been Morgan who retrieved him from the bar with no words and empathetic eyes. However, Hotch had stopped calling when Morgan attempted to pry, cornering the once-stoic unit chief between the water fountain and overused coffee machine in the BAU's kitchen. After that, it was Rossi, who was just as silent as Morgan, but his looks were more accusing, more worried, than Hotch figured the man needed to be. He had just lost his wife. He was a single father. He had killed a man with his bare hands. Wasn't he allowed to have a drink or two?
But the night Rossi had shoved him on his couch Hotch had listened when the bitter words were all but screamed in a tone that invited no rebuttal: "You call me again when you're drunk and you'll have more to worry about than a hangover."
So Hotch had called JJ, which, oddly enough, had ended everything before it really spiraled. She had arrived with tangled hair, rumpled clothing, sleep filled eyes, and with Will. The two had been gentle and kind, even when they assured Hotch the Henry was with a very understanding sitter. But the guilt had been too much. The next morning, he thanked JJ, silently wished he had called Emily, sent Rossi a knowing look that served as explanation, and had researched a few therapists until he had an appointment. It hadn't been easy, but it had saved him from more than one demon.
"I didn't know that…" Reid's soft words, etched with the dawning of understanding, brought Hotch back to his living room, which was quickly becoming filled with the light of oncoming day.
"It's not something I advertise." Reid nodded, comprehending the insinuated plea for secrecy. He rubbed the purple half-crescents under his eyes before speaking.
"What if," Reid stopped to lick his lips and swallow down the lump lodged in the middle of his esophagus. He opened his mouth again, faltered, and closed his lips once more.
"What if what, Reid?" Hotch's voice was soft, too soft, and Reid blinked, feeling a few drops of hot liquid scorch his cheeks. Hotch saw the saline glitter in the morning light, but did not acknowledge its existence.
"What if I really am crazy, Hotch?" Two eyebrows raised to a dark hairline. "What if a psychiatrist deems me mentally unfit?"
"Do you feel that way?" Reid sighed in frustration, running a rough hand through his hair.
You think you can do this job and not have ghosts follow you around?
"Sometimes I don't know what to think." Hotch nodded, accepting Reid's fear and the unfurling of the younger agent's borderline panic.
"We live in and with darkness, Reid. I don't have to tell you that." Reid bobbed his head, eyes trained on the floor. The mocha rows of hardwood not covered by throw rugs bathed the room in a brown glow, and Reid watched the lines in the slabs, following untraceable patterns with his gaze. Hotch simply waited, feeling the warmth of a new day on his skin.
"I chose this job because I wanted to help people, but now I'm the one who needs help." Reid chuckled bitterly, shaking his head from side to side.
"I think you're wrong." Hotch prompted. On cue, Reid turned his attention towards the older man.
"By helping yourself, by riding yourself of the very demons you chase and catch, you'll be better at helping others. You'll be a better agent and a better man. "Hotch paused for emphasis. To his surprise, Reid did not look away.
"Let the job teach you, Reid. Let it show you that being strong means accepting weakness." It was a whispered statement, but Hotch knew he had gotten through, reached down, and the core was unraveling at its center.
"Is that what you did?" The faint traces of a smile haunted Hotch's lips. Reid sent a similar grin back, turning his teary eyes back towards the floor.
"Not for a long time, but, if I didn't…"Hotch could not complete his statement, but the younger agent understood the implication. Unconsciously, Reid turned the bracelet on his wrist, enjoying the soothing pattern. In the now radiant morning, the weight felt wrong and out of place.
"Thanks Hotch." This time, Hotch smiled fully, and Reid shared a similar expression. It was rare to catch Hotch with his guard down, and it was near impossible to receive a genuine grin, but Reid also knew it was a testament to the man's new found strength, his willingness and ability to lead, and his indisputable concern. If Hotch could change and accept himself, then he could too.
"I'm taking Jack to breakfast." Hotch stood suddenly, and Reid clamored to his feet. The familiar warmth traveled to his cheeks. Of course Hotch wanted to spend a day with his son. Reid felt stupid for intruding on Hotch's limited personal time, which was already precariously filtering between the thin opening of two glass containers of some half-full, always changing, hour glass.
"I'll see you tomorrow then." He gave his boss an appreciative nod, heading towards the doorway before a familiar voice resounded in his ears.
"You mean you don't want pancakes too? I'm surprised. I thought you'd be a chocolate chip fan." Reid stopped, blinking slowly to align his thoughts before spinning on his heels. The room was void of any darkness and pressed sunlight onto things that had once been covered. Hotch stood between the bare walls, crumpled blanket, and half-completed coloring book-remnants of his altered, yet somehow complete, life.
"You guessed right." Reid agreed, revealing a set of deep dimples. His headache became a whispered chant, fading behind a promise of warmth.
Agent Hotchner walked towards the door, pulling the slab open to reveal morning, a new day, a new time, and a new place. Maybe, Hotch realized, if he looked long enough, and learned from all the heaviness, he could protect whatever was left. He could save his team. He could save himself.
Maybe there was a promise for good after all.